


Made With Love

by delicatelyglitterywriter



Series: Autism "Coming Out" Fics [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Autism, Autism Acceptance, Autistic Jemma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, autistic Jemma Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delicatelyglitterywriter/pseuds/delicatelyglitterywriter
Summary: Jemma tells her parents. Her mother doesn't react well. Her father is there to pick up the pieces





	Made With Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warnings:** ableist attitudes

“I need to talk to you about something.”

That was the only thing Jemma had said to her parents over the phone. Now, standing at the door of her childhood home, Jemma thinks that flying here may have been a mistake. She should have just told them over the phone.

Yes, this was definitely a mistake, Jemma decides. 

She turns to leave, when the door opens, and her mother appears, wearing a ginormous smile.

“Jemma, sweetie, it’s so good to see you again!”

She pulls Jemma in for a tight hug. Jemma leans into the hug, cherishing the warm and embracing touch. She wants to remember the last few moments of this relationship, before it’s shaken at the foundation.

Jemma knows that what she’s about to tell her parents is going to change everything. She wishes it didn’t change anything, but the world had a cruel way of giving her what she didn’t want, and taking away what she did.

Her mum breaks the hug and Jemma walks deeper into the house, after her mum, who calls out to her dad that she’s home.

She can’t stop her smile when her dad appears.

“Jemma.”

“Hi dad.”

Jemma wraps her arms around him and lays her head on his chest. He chuckles and hugs her back. 

“How’s my little space princess?”

Jemma giggles, pulling away enough to raise her chin to look at him. “She’s happy to be home. Although, you have to stop calling me little. I’m not so little anymore.”

“Really?” Her father runs his hand flat across the top of her head, and brings it to rest against his chest. “You still seem pretty tiny from up here.”

Jemma laughs, ducking her head. 

“Dad!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” 

He laughs along with her as they move to the dining room table. 

“Are you hungry after your flight?”

“A little bit, yes.”

Her statement is accentuated by a loud growl from her stomach. Her dad laughs again. 

“Let’s let your mum get some food into you, and I’ll move your bags to your room.”

_ Your room _ .

It sounds really weird, knowing that it’s now a guest room. Her parents had transformed it when she’d left for America. Technically, it was, and still is (and maybe forever  _ will be _ ) her room, but just knowing that it’s a guest room makes the phrase sound weird. 

But then maybe her parents say that to all the guests they have over. Yes, that makes it less weird, Jemma thinks, and so she accepts this theory.

Her heart leaps in her chest as a familiar scent hits her nostrils, and a second later, a familiar sight greets her eyes. It was her favourite meal growing up: her mum’s pasta bake. 

“Eat up,” her mum says, waltzing back into the kitchen. 

Jemma doesn’t hesitate to dig in. It tastes every bit as good as she remembers. She pauses, closing her eyes and savouring the flavour on her tongue before swallowing it. She devours her meal carefully (she doesn’t want to eat  _ too _ fast; she doesn’t want indigestion, after all), and sits back with a contented sigh after she’s done. 

She sits for thirty seconds, before she stands up and takes her plate over to her mum.

“Thanks, mum. It was as good as I remember.”

Her mum chuckles. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch. Now, when do you want to talk about that thing you came to tell us?”

Jemma’s smile vanishes and she looks down at her feet. “Erm, I was hoping as soon as possible?”

“We’ll wait until your father comes down,” her mother decides. Her tone holds the same anxious anticipation that Jemma feels. 

The two stand in silence for a few beats before her mother speaks again.

“It’s nothing bad, is it?”

“No!” Jemma assures her quickly with a shake of her head. She takes a breath and then repeats herself more calmly. “No. It’s not bad.”

Her mother is relieved, and she smiles at Jemma. 

“Go on, have a seat in the living room. We’ll be there shortly.”

Jemma does as she’s told, and she chooses her favourite spot on the couch (the rightmost cushion). She tries to sit and wait patiently but she can’t. There’s just too much nervous energy in her. She stands again and begins to pace in an attempt to calm herself down. She presses the backs of her hands against her neck. She even tries Fitz’s hand-shaking stim to soothe herself, but nothing works.

She plops back down in her spot and slides out her phone. Maybe having a quick pep talk with someone will help. She considers texting Fitz, but something about that doesn’t feel right. He’s never had to come out to anyone before, and so while she’s sure he’ll be sympathetic, she doubts he’ll  _ understand _ . 

Jemma swipes through her contacts, ultimately deciding on Daisy. She remembers Daisy coming out to her as bisexual last year, so surely Daisy understands what this feels like, even if it’s not exactly the same experience. 

On impulse, Jemma calls, rather than texts. 

“Hey, Jemma. Did you land safely?”

Daisy sounds far more chipper than Jemma currently feels.

“Yeah. Daisy, I...I’m about to tell my parents.”

“About your autism?”

“Yes.”

Daisy sympathetically sighs on the other end. Jemma waits for Daisy to say something, but she doesn’t. 

“I’m scared, Daisy.”

“I know.”

“What if they don’t…” Jemma draws in a deep breathe to soothe her burning lungs. “What if they don’t take it well?”

“Then I’m going to be right here to pick up the pieces,” Daisy answers without hesitation. “I will talk to you and I will personally fly over there, fight them, and then give you lots of hugs.” 

Jemma lets out a weak laugh, fighting back the tears already forming in her eyes. “You do realise it would take you seven hours?”

“Not if I have May flying.”

Jemma laughs again, but this one is a bit stronger than the last. She swipes at her eyes. Daisy speaks again, but her tone is solemn this time.

“But seriously, I get it. Coming out is a really hard thing to do, and it’s really fucking terrifying. I wish I could tell you that there’s an easy way to do it, but there isn’t. You just gotta sort of say it. Rip it off like a bandaid. I’d tell you to make puns about it, but that would just add to your stress.”

“How do you figure?”

Daisy scoffs. “There are only two things in life you fail miserably at: lying and making puns. Just  _ thinking _ about you trying to make puns is giving me the worst case of second-hand embarrassment, like, ever.”

Jemma wants to defend herself, but she knows that what Daisy’s saying is true. So, instead, she chuckles and sighs. She realises that a fair bit of her nervousness is gone. Not all gone, but enough that she’s not frozen in fear.

“Thanks, Daisy. I feel a bit better now.”

“Anytime. Call me after and let me how it goes?”

“Okay. I’ll see you later. Bye.”

“Later.”

Jemma puts her phone away as her parents enter the living room and sit down. Jemma inhales for four seconds, holds it for three, and slowly exhales for seven seconds, running through what she’s going to say in her head one more time. 

“So, on the phone, I told you there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Jemma begins.

“Are you pregnant?” her mother cuts in, her face positively glowing. Jemma furrows her brow. She did not expect that. Her dad places his hand on her mother’s arm.

“Let’s just let her talk, Helen.” 

“What? No! I would have told you that over the phone! True, I may be getting pregnant soon, what with being married and all, but that’s beside the point.”

Jemma takes another calming breath and reaches into her bag, pulling out the binders she’d made for them. She places them face-down on her lap, rests her hands on top of them and fiddles with her fingers.

“So, I’ve been doing a lot of research. Not just for my job, but on the side, too. It did actually start out as a work thing, where I had to research autism, because we were working with someone who was autistic. But the thing is, I noticed some characteristics in this person that I know I have myself. And the more I researched, the more things I came across that sound like me, and there came a point where I just  _ knew _ that it was me.”

She looks up, gauging her parents’ reactions. Her mum just looks confused, and her dad looks...patient, for lack of a better word.

“Jemma, are you trying to tell us you have autism?”

Jemma exhales. There it is. She nods. Her father nods slowly in understanding.

“Although, most of us prefer the term ‘autistic’, rather than ‘with autism’,” Jemma adds quickly. “I, um, I made some binders to help you understand better…”

She hands the binders to her parents as she continues to ramble. 

“It has information about autism largely from autistic sources, so it’s reliable, and I made sure to include lots of diagrams and graphs for you, mum, because I know you’re a mathematical learner, and dad I added some funny pictures in yours, because I know you like-”

“Are you sure?” her mum cuts in. 

Both Jemma and her father turn to face her. 

“Pardon?”

“Are you sure you’re autistic? I know you had a rough childhood, not fitting in, but do you really think it’s healthy to try and explain why, with something that doesn’t even exist?”

Jemma’s jaw drops. She had run hundreds of scenarios in her head, preparing for many, many reactions from her parents. This reaction, however, hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“ _ Excuse _ me?”

Her mother clicks her tongue, laying her binder down on the table. When she speaks, she speaks in a gentle and soothing tone.

“Jemma, you’re a scientist. Surely you know that autism is just a word made up by a bunch of parents to use as an excuse for lazy parenting.”

It feels like all the words have been pulled from her mouth. Jemma can only open her mouth wide and make a few noises of shock. She feels tears burning in her eyes as she finds her words again.

“Mum, it’s  _ because _ I’m a scientist that I know I’m autistic. Everything that came out of your mouth is wrong.”

She’s trying  _ really _ hard to keep her cool and not make this worse, but when her mother shakes her head, it makes it  _ way _ harder. 

“You’re just confused, sweetie,” her mother reasons softly. “You’re upset you had fewer friends than most kids, and so-”

“ _ No _ , mum,” Jemma cuts in, shooting to her feet. “I had  _ no _ friends! Because I was ‘that weird kid’ who loved homework more than playing with the other kids. Because I didn’t understand social cues. Because I was  _ autistic _ , mum! Because I  _ am _ autistic!”

Her mum is standing, too. “Jemma, darling, you need to calm down. I can’t talk to you when you’re hysterical.”

“ _ I’m not hysterical! _ ” Jemma shouts, tears streaming down her face. “I’m  _ hurt _ . I’m confused. I’m angry. Because I thought that  _ you _ , the woman who  _ taught _ me science, would understand better than anyone else. But I guess I was wrong.”

Jemma feels herself shaking as she turns and leaves the room. She needs to be alone. She needs to process this. She needs a hug. 

She closes the door to her bedroom as gently as she can, knowing she’s liable to break it if she slams it, kicks off her shoes, and curls up on the bed. She buries her face in the pillow, and cries. 

What she said to her mum is true: she’s hurt, and confused, and angry. But mostly, she’s just scared. She has no idea what she’s scared  _ of _ , she just knows she’s scared. 

Jemma cries so hard it feels like she might sob up a lung. She’s not entirely sure how long she cries for, but when she wakes up, she sees that it’s now the next day.  

She’s exhausted. Crying really tired her out. 

She feels hungry. She knows she should get up and get some food, but she really doesn’t want to face her mum again. Sure, it’s been eight-ish hours, but it still doesn’t feel fully safe.

She sighs, sniffs and stares at her shoes on the floor. It sure would be nice to be a shoe. All she’d have to do would hold feet and move around on the floor all day. Move around all day. On second thought, she thinks, that might not be so nice. Moving around all day on the floor sounds exhausting. 

Jemma lays still and thinks, processing what happened earlier that afternoon. One she’s worked through the events, she lazily reaches for her phone and dials Daisy up. She knows it’s after midnight where Daisy is, but she hopes that Daisy picks up. She really needs to talk to someone. 

“Hi. How’d it go?”

Jemma sighs. “Not well. Mum didn’t take the news well at all.”

“What’d she say?”

“To paraphrase: that autism is just an excuse for lazy parenting.”

“Ouch.” Jemma can hear Daisy’s wince. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Jemma feels more tears, and she uses her free hand to reach up and wipe them away. 

“I wish I could give you a hug right now.”

“Me too.”

The two lapse into a comfortable silence. Daisy’s the one who breaks it.

“What about your dad?”

“Don’t know. He was really quiet during it all.”

“Good quiet or bad quiet?”

“Again, I don’t know. I was too focused on mum to figure out his thoughts.”

Daisy sighs. “You should talk to him.”

“I don’t want to get out of bed,” Jemma states flatly. It feels so warm and safe, and like her parents can’t hate her, or hurt her, if she just stays here.

“I know,” Daisy says empathetically. Jemma thinks she hears Daisy draw in a shaky breath, but she’s not sure. “But staying in bed isn’t going to fix anything. It’s not like staying in bed is magically going to make your parents okay with your autism.”

“Feels like it,” Jemma grumbles wearily, rolling over. 

Daisy lets out a short laugh. “I know. Getting out of bed the morning after is really hard. Believe me, I get it. But that’s the hardest part - getting up, I mean. When you’ve had a shower and something to eat it becomes just a bit easier.”

“How much easier?”

“Not that much. But the shower helps wash those tears and snot off you, and breakfast gives you the patience and energy you need to deal with them again.”

Jemma can’t help but laugh a little. “Gross, Daisy.”

“Hey, I just tell it like it is.” 

Jemma smiles and sighs again. “Thanks, Daisy.”

“Good luck, Jemma. You’ve got this. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Daisy.”

“Bye. Love ya.”

Jemma drops her phone on the bed with a long exhale. Daisy’s right. She has to get up and face them, and laying there is only prolonging the inevitable. Best to get it over with. 

With another long exhale, Jemma pushes herself up, grabs some clothes from her suitcase, and quietly exits her room, going to the bathroom for a shower. Turns out, Daisy was right about the shower. It does get rid of all the mucus and tears and ickiness from last night, and the hot water helps dull the pain, making it a bit easier to breathe, and wakes her up fully.

After the shower, Jemma cautiously tiptoes down the stairs. She wants to gauge the situation in the kitchen before she actually enters. When she gets downstairs, however, her mother is nowhere to be seen. Not in the living room, not in the dining room, not in the kitchen. Her dad is the only one she can see, and he’s in the kitchen, making pancakes. He smiles when he sees her.

“Good morning. You hungry?”

Jemma nods, sliding into one of the chairs at the bench. She licks her lips as her dad loads a plate with pancakes for her. She pours  _ just _ the right amount of syrup on them and then digs in. Her dad had always made the most amazing pancakes.

“Where’s mum?” she asks after finishing what’s on her plate.

“She’s out at the moment,” her dad answers shortly, his back to hers. Jemma knows he’s hiding something.

“Where?”

Her dad sighs and turns back to her. “I don’t know. She...last night after you’d gone upstairs, she said she couldn’t deal with this, and left. I don’t know where she’s gone, or when she’s coming back.”

Jemma feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She swallows several mouthfuls of freshly-squeezed orange juice to keep from crying. Somehow, her mother leaving hurts more than what she said last night. 

“Why?” It’s the only thing Jemma can manage without bursting into tears again. 

“Your mother has never been good with mental illnesses, mental disorders, and whatnot. I’m working on it, but you know how stubborn your mother is. Hearing that her daughter has one is just too much for her to deal with right now.”

“What about you? Is it too much for you to deal with?”

“No. It’s going to take a little time to adjust, but I’m okay with it.”

Jemma closes her eyes and let’s ot a long, relieved sigh. She feels her dad sit down next to her and put his arm around her. She leans into him, feeling like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. 

“Thanks, dad.”

Her dad kisses the top of her head, and the two sit in a happy silence. After a little while, Jemma speaks again.

“Can I please have some more pancakes?”

“With pleasure,” her dad answers with a smile, hastening back behind the bench to make her some more, which she eats with a renewed gusto.

She always did love her dad’s pancakes. He always said the secret ingredient was love. And now, she finally understood what he had meant by that. 

In that understanding, Jemma thinks they’ve never tasted better than now.


End file.
